


A Little Lace Goes a Long Way

by otenma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Castiel in Panties, Dean in Panties, M/M, Panties, Smut, there are a lot of panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otenma/pseuds/otenma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean learns something interesting about his brother's latest conquest.<br/>(Done for fic challenge - prompt: person A spills coffee on person B).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Lace Goes a Long Way

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfic (yay) and I'm considering making this a series-type-thing, so I would dearly appreciate any and all feedback! Hit me with your best shot.

Dean grins around his coffee mug as the poor sap who'd come home with his brother stumbles out of the back bedroom and groans his way down the hall and into the kitchen. The guy's cute--tallish, stubble, and dark, sex-mussed hair Dean wants to steer him by--in rumpled trousers slung low on his hips and an AC/DC t-shirt.

The man glares blearily at Dean, rustling through the cupboards for a coffee mug--he picked the pink Hello Kitty one, huh--and pouring himself some piping hot java.

"Rough night?" Dean asks.

"Don't ask stupid questions," the man grouses, hoarse. He dumps a veritable mountain of sugar into his coffee and takes a long pull, throat working--Dean watches, fixated, as his Adam's apple bobs.

"What's your name, angel?"

The man makes a face. "This coffee tastes terrible."

"That's what you get for ruining it with sugar." Dean sips his own coffee--black, no weird crap in it.

The man considers his response with a head tilt and shrugs. "Castiel."

"Bless you."

"That's my name."

"Ah," Dean sets down his mug on the counter and gestures to the stool beside him. "Well in that case, have a seat, Castiel. Welcome to our humble something-or-other." He waves behind him, gesturing the entirity of the apartment--clearly a bachelor pad, full of lawyer texts and vinyls.

"I've already been welcomed."

Dean clinks their mugs together--a little sloshes over the side of Castiel's. "Right, right. Sammy's latest conquest. I'm surprised you're not a chick."

"I'm not." Castiel plays with the spice rack on the counter, rearranging them. It takes Dean a moment to realize he's putting them in alphabetical order. "You're Dean."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's me."

They sit in silence for a time after that. Dean watches Castiel sort the spices, then he moves on to the condiments, facing each label outwards. Dean clears his throat. "I, uh, I like your shirt. AC/DC rocks."

Castiel looks down as though surprised. "Do they? I've never heard them."

Dean snorts coffee up his nose. "Wh--what? You've never...? But you have the shirt!"

"It's not mine. I found it on the floor. Mine was soiled last night by your brother."

Dean grabbed the shirt, pulling Castiel with it. "That little punk--this is my shirt! He's been mixing up our laundry again. I swear to God, he doesn't even bother to sort, just throws our stuff in one big pile--"

Castiel croaks a laugh. "You're upset over how your brother sorts clothing?"

"Hey, this is a vintage shirt, alright? Can't just throw it in the regular cycle—what?"

Castiel giggles--it sounds odd, from a voice that low. "Nothing. Dean, you're...an interesting person."

Dean lets him go. "Shut up." He goes to his vinyl collection and pulls out an AC/DC album, sliding it out of its sleeve and setting it onto the turntable. "Listen to this." He lines up the needle and lets it go.

AC/DC pounds through the cramped living room. Castiel clutches his mug and pads barefoot to where Dean stands, leaning over and flipping through Dean’s box of records. They’re so close their shoulders brush every time Castiel shifts, seemingly oblivious to the utter lack of personal space. “I like your collection,” he says.

“You’ve listened to these?”

“No,” Castiel says, matter of fact. “But I like them. Especially this one.” He sets his mug on the edge of the TV beside the record box and holds upa Joey Scarbury album.

Dean plucks it from Cas’s hands and shoves it into the very back like he’s allergic to it. “That one…ah, guilty pleasure, okay?” He gruffs. “Don’t tell Sammy, I’ll never hear the end of it.” He crosses his arms and cants a hip on the TV and knocks over the mug.

It skids off the corner, right towards his collection…

Castiel catches it, amazingly not spilling a drop on the vinyls—but, Dean sees, that’s because all of the coffee’s spilled onto his trousers.

“Crap, crap, uh—shit, I’m sorry.”

Castiel hisses at the hot coffee, pulling his pant legs away from his skin. “It’s fine.”

“Does that hurt?” Castiel glares. “Right, don’t ask stupid questions, okay.”

“At least your shirt is undamaged.”

“Come on, let’s get those off.”

“Excuse me?”

“Off. You’re gonna scald yourself or something, just go into the bathroom and—woah.” Dean turns just in time to witness Castiel bunching his trousers down his legs and stepping out of them, tilting his head when Dean stares, mouth agape.

“Dean.”

Dean snaps himself out of it. “Uh, yeah.” He jabs his thumb behind him. “I meant in the uh, the bathroom, but…here works too.”

Castiel nods to himself and folds his trousers, no a spec of self-consciousness to be found. “Thank you.”

“Do you, uh…” Dean rubs the back of his neck when Castiel looks at him again—Jesus, does he ever blink? “Do you always wear pink panties?”

“No,” Castiel says with utmost posterity. “Sometimes I wear blue ones, or white. I also have quite a few orange pairs.”

“But they’re all _girl’s_ underwear?”

“They’re all _my_ underwear.” Castiel prowls towards Dean. “Does my choice in undergarments make you uncomfortable?”

Dean chuckles nervously and shakes his head. “No, nah. Of course not. If you uh, if you…” His eyes dip back down. Dean’s shirt cuts across Castiel’s hips, just barely below the waistline of his pink…lacy…panties. If the man were to reach up, it would expose the most perfect stripe of stomach…

Castiel doesn’t say anything to snap Dean out of it this time, just watches him, eyes steady as a rock, until Dean glances back up at him. Dean swallows—Castiel can almost hear it.

Dean’s mouth has gone completely dry.

“Would you like to touch them?” Castiel asks. Dean licks his lips without thinking.

“Sammy, uh…”

“Sam is asleep. And he and I are far from exclusive. He was as much a conquest for me as I was for him.”

“Conquest?”

Castiel steps into Dean’s space, never breaking eye contact—Dean wonders how anyone could possibly have eyes that blue. “Dean.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to touch them?”

“Yeah.”

Dean doesn’t have to do more than lift his hands, they’re that close, and he’s skimming his palms over the spurs of Castiel’s hips. His skin is warm, smooth. Dean’s fingertips catch on the lace of the panty’s waistband—Castiel inhales sharply, through his nose. “Dean.”

“Yeah.” Jesus, is that all he can say?

“Show me your bedroom.”

Dean takes him by the wrist and guides him down the hall.  

The bedroom is Spartan in furniture, just a bookshelf, bed, and military-issue trunk, but the walls are plastered in posters. Castiel closes the door behind them and admires the posters. “I like them.”

“You don’t even know what these are from.”

Castiel takes in the posters and homes in on one in particular, half-hidden behind the bookshelf. “I know this one. Dr. Sexy.” Dean fidgets by the door—Castiel smiles. “Another guilty pleasure?”

Dean crosses his arms.

“I won’t tell Sam,” Castiel promises, hooking a thumb into the waistband of his panties.

That’s all the invitation Dean needs. He crosses the room and their mouths meet in a tangle of teeth and tongue. Castiel threads his hands through Dean’s hair, holding the back of his head—Dean responds in kind, finally getting to drag his fingers through that dark mass he’s been eyeing since the man walked into his kitchen.

Castiel unbuttons Dean’s plaid shirt and shoves it down his shoulders, growling in his throat at the plain t-shirt underneath. “You—” he pushes Dean back, “and your brother—” he rips the shirt up and off, casting it aside, “—wear entirely too many layers.”

Dean laughs and pulls off Castiel’s—technically his—shirt, dropping it to the floor and running his hands over the man’s chest. He’s got good muscle, lean, just a bit soft at the belly…and tan all over, not a single line. What does he do, sunbathe naked?

Just the thought makes Dean’s cock jump in his jeans.

Castiel makes to pull off his panties but Dean grabs his hands, stopping him. “No. Those, uh…those stay on.”

Dean’s rewarded with a crooked grin that makes Castiel’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Fine. But yours must come off.”

Castiel works the button of Dean’s jeans and unzips them, finding…no underwear at all. He wears all those layers on top, and then nothing underneath?

Winchesters.

Dean’s mostly hard already. Castiel wraps a firm, callused hand around him—Dean’s cock is heavy, and hot against his palm. When he twitches his wrist just so, Dean’s head falls back with a groan. Castiel starts up a rhythm.

“No, no wait.” Dean licks his lips—oh, that mouth—and pulls Castiel’s hand away. “I don’t wanna come like that.”

“Then how would you like to come?”

Dean chuckles. Castiel sounds almost petulant. He sits down on the bed, opening his legs—his cock juts crudely from his open jeans—and guiding Castiel between them by his panties. Dean leans forward, tracing the dark line of hair leading down from his navel with the tip of that sinful tongue.

“You’re already hard—you’ve leaked through the fabric…”

Castiel’s cock twitches when Dean’s mouth ghosts over his hip bones, teeth pulling the hem of his panties. “Dean…”

Dean gets on his knees, pulling down Castiel’s panties, down, down, tucking them under his balls. Castiel’s cock bounces against his stomach, head slick with precome. Dean kisses it along the side, giving the head a teasing lick.

Castiel growls in frustration, taking his cock in one hand and holding Dean’s head with the other. He taps Dean’s lips with the head, smearing a dab of precome. “Dean.”

Dean grins and opens his mouth, taking as much of Castiel as he can in one go. Castiel’s knees nearly buckle and he groans from deep in his chest. Dean takes the opportunity to grab Castiel’s hand from his cock and pin it behind his back.

Castiel tastes like the ocean, Dean realizes. Salty, and tangy, and a little like ozone. He’s not particularly large, but Dean loves it—he can fit almost all of that hot cock down his throat with barely any gagging. It makes him feel powerful, and if Castiel’s shy about his size it doesn’t show.

Dean sucks on an uptake, hollowing his cheeks—Castiel’s free hand tightens in his hair, searching for something to grab onto—and down again, right to the base. He keeps it up, sucking and bobbing, laving the length of Castiel with the flat of his tongue, sucking on just the tip, thumbing the slit to make Cas cry out, until he’s got the other man bucking.

“Dean.”

How is it that the guy can make his name mean something different every time? Castiel grits his teeth, but instead of throwing his head back like Dean expected, he looks down, meeting Dean’s gaze and holding it. Castiel’s face tightens as he comes—Dean takes what he can, but some of it spurts onto his cheek, his clavicle—and then goes slack. His face and chest are flushed with pleasure.

Dean holds them like that, acting as a base for Cas to lean against, his face pressed against Cas’s belly. Castiel comes back down to Earth, stroking Dean’s hair back, and breaks away to sag on the edge of the bed.

Castiel doesn’t move, not even to tuck his cock back inside of his panties, for so long Dean wonders if he’s gone comatose. Then, abruptly, Cas scrolls his panties down his hips, off of his legs.

“Remove your pants,” Castiel tells him.

Dean’s only too happy to comply, nearly jumping up—he’s achingly hard now and anxious to get out of all things confining—and yanking his jeans off, tossing them somewhere in the vicinity of the bookshelf.

Castiel tilts his head, admiring the view—Dean’s well-built, freckles scattered in constellations all over his chest and arms and legs, the pentagram tattoo on his chest dark against his skin. And that cock—red and leaking, begging to be put to use. Dean’s chest puffs out as Castiel beings to harden again. Proud, too.

Cas lobs the panties at Dean. “Put them on.”

Dean catches the panties, dumbstruck. “Wha—what?”

“The panties. Put them on.”

“No way! I’m not…like that.”

Castiel levers himself off the bed, padding over and lifting his chin ‘til they were looking each other square in the eyes—Dean’s widened, he gulped. “Dean.”

Dean slides the panties on, hesitating and stumbling a bit. He gives Cas an asking glance when the panties are halfway up his thighs, but the man just stares him down, and Dean slips them all the way on. He tries to tuck his erection into them but his cock keeps bobbing, so he gives up.

Castiel drinks in Dean—Dean, wearing someone else’s panties, his cock so hard and big that the glistening head peeks out of the waistband. Castiel approaches, tapping the head lightly, making Dean inhale sharply—his finger comes away sticky, a line of precome dangling.

Castiel looks at Dean and pops his finger in his mouth, sucking it clean. He tilts his head.

“What?” Dean asks. He shifts his arms, shuffles from foot to foot—his legs bow outward, Castiel notices.  

“I like it.” Castiel brings Dean in for another kiss, turning them, walking Dean backwards to the bed.

The backs of Dean’s knees hit the mattress and he goes down, taking Cas with him, trapping the man’s hips between his legs and pulling him close, rubbing their cocks together. The lace of the panties creates a friction that makes Dean shudder all over, and Cas rolls their hips, running the length of his cock along Dean’s and back again.

“Dean.”

“Cas.”

Castiel lifts his head to peg Dean with a considering look, but he lets the nickname go. He likes it, and besides, he’s got far more interesting things to occupy his attention than names.

“I want you,” Dean says against Cas’s mouth, reaching down to run his fingers through the crease of Castiel’s ass. He circles the pad of his finger around Cas’s hole.

Castiel stills. Crap. Did he say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing? Did Cas want to fuck him instead?

But Cas just rolls next to him, carding a hand through Dean’s hair, stroking a thumb along his cheekbone. “Want me how?”

Dean grins and props himself up on an elbow, skimming his hand down Cas’s side, his flank, and back up again. He was so warm, he practically glowed. He leaned down, to Cas’s ear. “I want you on your knees.”  

Castiel does as bid. Dean settles himself behind him, crouching down. Cas’s balls hang low—Dean fondles them gently, liking the weight of them. He nudges Castiel’s thighs farther apart, a triangle with his ass at the apex, and spreads his cheeks.

At the first swipe of Dean’s tongue, Castiel’s breathing hitches. Soon enough it becomes a steady stream of mewling moans—who’d have thought a guy with such a low voice could mewl? Castiel even shifts so he can reach back himself, keeping his cheeks apart as Dean laves and kisses and sucks. He arrows his tongue and breaks through the tight ring of muscle, though not as tight as he’d expect—Sam, he recalls. His brother had Castiel just last night.

Strangely, that doesn’t bother him, and the thought’s shrugged off as Dean turns to more important matters.

Castiel’s ass clenches under Dean’s ministrations. His hips writhe, little figure eights whose only purpose seems to be attempting to corkscrew his ass on Dean’s tongue.

Dean pulls away for a moment—Cas growls at the loss, twisting to glower at him.

“Relax,” Dean laughs, presenting the bottle of lube and a female condom. He let Cas stew just long enough to sear the image into his memory—Cas, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, on his knees and holding open his ass, all while glaring daggers.

All of Dean’s rimming had softened Cas up nicely, and Dean is able to slip two fingers inside of him with a few drops of lube right off the bat. Cas groans and sits back, trying to get them deeper.

Dean thrusts his fingers as far in as he can go, crooking them down, searching for that little hunk of flesh—there.

Cas cries out, back arching, biting his lip to keep the noise in his throat. Dean crouches over him and hits his prostate again. “You’re beautiful like this,” Dean says, flicking it once more. He gets a third finger in along the others, twisting Cas open.

“Dean.”

And by now Dean doesn’t question how or why he understands what Cas means this time, he just rips open the female condom with his teeth—it’s similar to a regular condom, just looser, and it’s made to stay inside a body rather than on one. It looks weird but oh, the sensation is a thousand times better.

Dean fits the condom over his fingers and pushes it inside of Cas, pulling his cock out of the panties and lining it up. He presses just the head in at first, making them both groan.

Cas claws at the sheets and shoves backwards, forcing Dean in more. “Please,” he demands, and Dean is only too happy to comply.

Dean slides in to the hilt. Cas makes a stuttering noise and lets his head hid the mattress, clenching, holding onto Dean with everything he’s got.

Dean pulls out and thrusts back in, all the way.

“Heaven,” he proclaims. “Heaven, Cas. You’re Heaven.”

“Harder.”

Dean gives him all of it—thrusts, ruts, grinds. He circles his hips, angles his cock to brush Cas’s prostate, reaches around to grab his cock only to find that Cas’s hand is already busy pumping away, so he travels instead up to Cas’s nipples, toying with them, pinching and squeezing, turning Cas into a puddle.

And all while the lacy pink panties slowly make their way down Dean’s ass with every movement.

Dean’s stomach goes tight, that low heat seething away in his gut, and he knows. “Cas,” he says.

“Dean.”

Dean thrusts once more—Cas feels his cock swell inside, and then his come, thick hot ropes. Dean’s hips buck with every spurt, shallow and quick. He reaches around, batting Cas’s hand away so he can tunnel that cock himself, working Cas into a frenzy.

Cas’s breathing changes, muscles of his shoulders going rigid. It doesn’t take long.

White come blurts out of Cas’s slit, spattering the sheets. Dean milks his cock, soft and slow and easy.

Dean pulls out with a squelch, tugging the condom out and throwing it into the waste bin by the bed.

Castiel collapses, skin slick with sweat. He rolls onto his back and pulls Dean in for a lazy kiss, grounding them.

Dean sighs and curls up, pillowing his head against Cas’s chest, right over his heart. It pounds against his ear like a marching band.

“So…” Dean trails off. Cas combs his fingers through his hair. “Was I better than Sam?”

Winchesters.

End


End file.
